


the artist's atlas of the female figure

by alcibiades



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Artist Steve Rogers, F/M, Female Bucky Barnes, Modern Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 09:30:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6512758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alcibiades/pseuds/alcibiades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had headphones on, and she didn't want to startle him. She found herself hovering in the door, until finally he twisted, his face melting from an expression of absorbed concentration into disbelief. "Beck?" he said, pulling the headphones off, throwing them down, tossing aside his pencil. </p><p>"Surprise," said Becky, giving him the best smile she could manage. He came right over -- he'd gotten taller, too; it had apparently been a hell of a late growth spurt. Before they'd been just about of a height, and now the top of her head hardly came up to his shoulder. She didn't have a lot of time to think about that, though -- he hugged her, and he was big and solid and warm in a way he had never used to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the artist's atlas of the female figure

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AllotropicBi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllotropicBi/gifts).



Opening the door to the apartment brought with it this dizzying dual sensation. Her key still worked, and when she pushed the door open, it gave that familiar awful creak that had always made sneaking in unnoticed impossible. The inside of the apartment was superficially the same, too; the layout hadn't changed much, and Steve hadn't done any redecorating that she could see. He'd just filled it up with a bunch of canvases leaning against the walls, and the further she got inside, the more she could see these little touches -- he'd stripped the remains of the crumbling, peeling paint off the brick walls, and he must have refinished the floors. It made the emptiness of the place and the cheapness of the furniture that much more jarring.

"Steve?" she said. No answer; she set her bag down in one of the awful formica kitchen chairs and walked further inside, down the hall to Steve's bedroom. The door was open, and he was facing away from it, toward the window. She had known he'd changed, but seeing the breadth of his shoulders and back was a visceral shock in a way she hadn't been expecting.

He had headphones on, and she didn't want to startle him. She found herself hovering in the door, until finally he twisted, his face melting from an expression of absorbed concentration into disbelief. "Beck?" he said, pulling the headphones off, throwing them down, tossing aside his pencil. 

"Surprise," said Becky, giving him the best smile she could manage. He came right over -- he'd gotten taller, too; it had apparently been a hell of a late growth spurt. Before they'd been just about of a height, and now the top of her head hardly came up to his shoulder. She didn't have a lot of time to think about that, though -- he hugged her, and he was big and solid and warm in a way he had never used to be. 

For a second she thought she might cry. It was stupid. She had undergone a lot more duress than this without crying in the years since they'd last seen each other, and here she was ready to break down for no good reason at all. He let go of her and put his hands on her shoulders, setting her back so he could look at her. "You cut your hair," he said.

"Hello to you too," said Becky, shaking her head, aware of how it made the wavy strands float along the line of her jaw. "It's been almost six years; I think I was allowed to cut my hair in that time without getting your permission, you know."

"Six years," said Steve. He laughed, disbelieving, and ran his hand through his hair. "I mean, I know we talked, you e-mailed me when you could but -- it's not the same. Come on, let's sit down. Do you want anything?"

"Water would be good," said Becky. She followed him to the kitchen and moved her bag to the floor so she could sit down in a chair. Steve passed her a glass of water. He sat down too, and for a minute they just sat there staring at each other across the kitchen table as if they could somehow bridge the chasm of years between them and pick up right where they'd left off.

"You're back," said Steve. "You're really here."

"I'm really here," Becky agreed. "Becky Barnes, in the flesh."

Steve shook his head and laughed again. "I think I almost forgot what you looked like," he said. "What have you been doing? How'd you -- are you on vacation or something?"

"Or something," Becky said, nodding slowly. "And the first question, you know I can't tell you that. It's classified. Anyway, it's nothing exciting. Being an analyst isn't what the movies make it out to be." This was entirely a lie, but it was a lie she had practice with, even if it tasted sour on her tongue saying it to Steve. "Here's the coolest part of my job." 

She pulled her credentials out of the inner pocket of her jacket and slid them across the table to Steve. _Jane Rebecca Barnes_ they said, with an unsmiling, oppressively businesslike mugshot of Becky, and a security clearance that was much lower than the level at which she actually operated. She watched Steve study them.

He made a _huh_ noise eventually and handed them back to her. He stared at her blankly again for a minute "I'm sorry," he said. "I just can't believe you're here."

"Tell you what I can't believe," said Becky, "is that you're some big-shot painter now and you couldn't find it in your heart to replace these chairs, Steve."

Steve snorted. "I hate to tell you this, but one positive review and some attention from people with too much money doesn't make me a big shot."

"You quit that shitty job," Becky said. "I'd say that makes you a big enough shot, if you're making a living off your art."

Steve put his chin in his hand, his gaze sliding down to the table. He shrugged. "I can't help feeling like it's just going to stop," he said. "And I'll just end up right where I was before."

"That's probably a pretty common fear," Becky said. His face had changed a lot in the intervening years, but his expression was just exactly the same. It made her hurt somewhere deep inside that even her own pain couldn't hope to touch, physical or otherwise. It made her remember why she'd left in the first place, and christ, she'd been a fucking coward to go. "Come on, Steve. You can't predict the future. Your work is good, I've been saying that for years. You work hard. If anyone deserves this, it's you."

Steve's expression didn't shift. In that moment, Becky was still the same scared little girl she'd been her entire life, the girl she'd done her damnedest to get rid of and never quite managed to kill or leave behind. She smiled broadly, and punched Steve in the arm. "You need a beer," she said. " _I_ need -- whiskey, I need whiskey. Is that place on the corner still open?"

"The one with the cowboy boot sign and the jukebox that only plays Creed?" Steve said, making a face.

"The one with the dollar slices of pizza during happy hour," said Becky. She unzipped her bag and reached in for her wallet, sliding it into the inner pocket of her jacket and replacing her credentials. "Get your jacket, let's go."

Four hours later, Steve was at least six beers in -- his tolerance had improved drastically in line with his body weight, apparently -- and even Becky, who had undergone training to improve her own resistance to drunkenness, was realistic enough to admit she was drunker than she'd been in a long time. "What about Peggy?" she asked. "That was her name, right?" 

She knew that was the girl's name. She'd seen pictures. She'd looked at Peggy's instagram account enough times to have Peggy's radiant smile and steely gaze memorized. Peggy liked the following things: red lipstick, specifically Urban Decay F-Bomb; Italian food, specifically spaghetti carbonara from Lucia's in Vadnais Heights; and hot rollers. Peggy was a law student. Maybe a lawyer now; Becky didn't know if she'd passed the bar yet. 

"Peggy," Steve said, as if saying it was like lifting a great weight.

"Okay," Becky said, "I'm guessing it didn't work, then."

"She had -- she has things to do with her life," Steve said, holding his beer bottle against his forehead. It was hot in the bar, and he was sweating slightly. "Better things to do than hang out with a struggling artist."

"Wow," said Becky. "I feel like I shouldn't ask what happened."

"You're right," said Steve fiercely. "You shouldn't." He put the bottle down with a resounding clink. "Anyway, what's -- what about you?"

"What about me what?" said Becky. "Working sixty-hour weeks doesn't exactly leave a lot of time for fraternization." Another lie she had a lot of practice telling, and one that was at least slightly closer to the truth. She hadn't gotten laid in -- maybe eleven months.

"Nobody?" said Steve. "Come on, you were always so --"

"So what, Steve?" she asked, turning toward him, leaning her cheek in her hand and making her eyes big.

"You know," Steve said. He looked away.

"I don't know," Becky said. "Please, Steve, enlighten me."

"Never mind," Steve said. "You know I don't want to get into this here. You were right when you said it's none of my business."

Becky wanted to punch something, or kick. Hard enough to break a knuckle or a toe, maybe. "For fuck's sakes," she said. "You know it's your business, and even if it wasn't, I know you well enough to know you'd make it your business. What is this game you're playing with me, this whole pretend act?"

Steve had seized onto his beer and he was squeezing it so hard his knuckles were white. "I don't know," he said. He had that eerily calm tone he sometimes adopted when he was trying not to get loud. "Maybe just the same game you're playing with me. I mean, what is this, Beck? You just -- leave for six years, you come back, you want to just waltz back into my life like nothing changed?"

A lump formed in Becky's throat. She grabbed her jacket, the leather squeaking and the zippers jingling. "What?" Steve said. "You just come back and you're some -- leather-jacket wearing, black boots badass, and you just want me to be -- what, you want me to be impressed with you, Beck? Is that it? Like maybe if you just act cool enough I'll forget you were gone?"

"No," said Becky, ducking her head, letting her hair curtain her face. Her voice came out weak, choked. She hated it. "No, I -- I want to go." She threw her jacket on and started for the exit, fast, weaving through the crowd just like she knew how to do.

Steve caught up to her outside, grabbing her elbow. She hated that, she'd always hated it. She should have shaken him off. She could have given him that elbow to the windpipe. She could have broken his nose, or his wrist. She stood there frozen instead, in the drizzle that had started up since they'd been inside. "I'll get my bag," she said. "You don't want me here, I get it. I'll go."

"That's not what I said." She couldn't make herself look at Steve, but he turned her around until she was facing him, and then bent down to her level before continuing. "I don't want you to leave. I never wanted you to leave."

 _I had to go,_ she didn't say. She wrenched her arm free and went past Steve, into the lobby of the building, and then up the stairs. The heels of her boots were so loud, along with the sound of her own heartbeat in her ears. _What did you think was going to happen?_ she wondered, fumbling with her keys even as Steve shouldered past her to unlock the door. 

"Shit," she said. "I had too much to drink, Steve, I'm sorry." She followed him in, brushing her hair out of her face and smiling ruefully at him. "Uh, is -- I can get a hotel tomorrow, if you want, but is it okay if I stay here tonight?"

Steve stared at her, perplexed, the shoulders of his jacket damp from the rain. "Sure," he said. "I'll take the couch."

"Sure," Becky said. She dragged her bag into his bedroom and looked around. There were so many paintings, sketches, drawings. Steve had always had a knack for painting women; he seemed to _see_ them in a way that other artists didn't. Among the drawings pinned haphazardly to the walls were several portraits of Peggy, and a beautiful redheaded woman with a lush mouth and a fierce stare. "How come you never drew me?" she called.

"What?" Steve said, coming into the doorway, leaning against the frame. He'd taken off his jacket, and the hem of his t-shirt rode up to expose the waistband of his underwear and a thin sliver of skin.

"I said, you never drew me," Becky said. 

"Why'd you cut your hair?" Steve asked.

Becky brushed her hands through it, thinking of how long it had been before, the heavy weight of it. Steve had taught himself to braid and sometimes he'd braided it for her, so gentle, soothing out the tangles with his thin fingers. "I had to let it go," she said. "You can't hold onto things forever, you know."

Steve's gaze shuttered for a moment. "I did draw you," he said.

"When?" Becky asked.

"It doesn't matter," Steve said. "You can't hold onto things forever, like you said."

It would have been the perfect moment to say something cliche like: I had to leave because I loved you, and I didn't want that version of my life to be my story. Instead, Becky shrugged off her jacket and tossed it onto the chair piled high with books in the corner. "Draw me now," she said.

"What?" said Steve.

"You heard me," Becky said. She pulled her t-shirt over her head by the back, kicked off her boots. "Draw me now."

Steve stared at her. She unzipped her jeans and wiggled out of them, unhooked the clasp of her bra and dropped it to the floor. It was funny; earlier when she'd put on this ridiculous pair of black lacy underwear she'd thought to herself what a shame it was that nobody'd be seeing them but her. Now -- she squared her shoulders and looked at Steve. 

He came forward and reached for her. His hands were shaking a little, and she realized that she was shaking a little too. "Becky," he said. "Beck, is this --"

"Don't say anything," Becky said, leaning up. "Don't say anything, just --"

Kissing him was so strange. It felt like coming home, and at the same time like nothing she'd ever felt before. His jaw was very smooth, with hardly a hint of stubble, and his mouth was soft too, hot. He'd learned to kiss sometime while she'd been gone. 

She was pressed up against him now, against all that unfamiliar bulk. Her knees hit the back of the bed and she fell down onto it, catching herself on her elbows. Steve came too, braced over her. He reached for the hem of his own shirt and pulled it off.

"Shit," said Becky, confronted with the reality of just how much he'd changed. It shouldn't matter; it was the same Steve, really, but -- 

"We should," Steve said. His hands hovered in the air, and then finally came down on her face, cupping her jaw, his thumb fitting into the dimple of her chin. Becky realized she had no idea if Steve'd even had sex with anyone, and here she was blindsiding him with all of this. "Oh, Beck," he said. "I think -- I think we should just sleep tonight."

The feelings of disappointment and relief warred inside her. She lay there as Steve rearranged the comforter so that it was covering her up and then took off his pants and settled down beside her. She could feel him watching her, and eventually she rolled over to face him.

"Hi," she said. In the dark, he smiled a little, his eyes glistening with reflected streetlight. He reached out and put his arms around her. This was it, she thought, this was what she'd been running from. She'd never in her life been able to tell if she was afraid it'd hurt too much, or if she was afraid it'd feel too good. She still didn't know.

It seemed impossible that she'd be able to sleep. But it'd been a long trip. She was home. And eventually, she slept.

**Author's Note:**

> Companion of sorts to ["B average."](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5372393/chapters/14772376) Thanks for reading. I'm also on [tumblr.](http://dorkbait.tumblr.com)


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